I did not even notice the bombs falling around me. I could do nothing about the bombs, but I could save my family, my children.
We are from Benkovac, Croatia. My husband, three of my children (8, 5, and 3), and I ran away in 1994, due to increased military activity in that region. Before leaving, I worked as a teacher, while my husband worked in a factory. Until the war we had a very good life, but then everything went downhill. I had to work during the war, while my husband was mobilized, unwillingly. During the entire war period, we lived in our village house without electricity and water. Our apartment in Zadar, a coastal city some 300 km away from Zagreb, was erased by bombshells.
Just at the outset of the war, I gave birth to my third child, a son. During the war I did not have the right to maternity leave and had to both work and take care of the baby. In 1993, all my hopes that the war would end were shattered. By the end of 1993, the war intensified: food and water were scarce and we barely survived on scraps. Our house was barely saved, as bombs fell virtually at our doorstep. All the while, I had to take care of my children and work. It was horrible.
In 1994, the enemy forces invaded and closed in on where we lived. My husband, obtaining the information from the field, deserted the army, came to us, and said we needed to leave immediately. We took our car and joined a seemingly endless convoy of other refugees. Our trip lasted eight days. We did not know where we were going, as we merely followed the convoy. We did not care, as long as we were going away from war. With two children and a baby, we left without anything, food or water. I still shiver when I think of that.
Empathy was a luxury nobody was entitled to on the journey. It was a struggle for bare existence. We traveled for two days, when we crossed into Bosnia and reached a small city, Petrovac. There, I realized something was wrong with my youngest, Milos, an infant of 3 years. He looked very weak, almost lifeless. We inquired about the hospital and I headed in its general direction, while my husband stayed with our children in the car. I walked some 3 km, all the while a spectacle of explosions pervaded everything around me. Holding Milos while looking for the hospital felt very surreal, as if time had stopped. I felt as if life itself was leaving him.
We finally found a doctor, who understood my son was dehydrated and gave him the proper therapy. In the meantime, I was instructed to look around the city for some tea, as we were all at risk of dehydration. I remember clearly: I knocked at 23 doors asking for help. I did not even notice the bombs falling around me. I could do nothing about the bombs, but I could save my family, my children. At the 23rd doorstep, Fatima, a Muslim woman, opened. Until then, I had no contact and understanding of Muslims. She let me inside the house, packed tea and even food and thus my family was saved. It seems that war, despite all its madness, taught me an invaluable lesson about humanity, a lesson I will never forget. We moved on and six days later we were in Vojvodina, Serbia. Now we live in Bar, coastal city of Montenegro. I work as a teacher, my children are graduating from the University. We are doing well, all thanks to Fatima from Bosnian Petrovac.
Lakic's testimony has been taken by Mensur Bajramspahic/UNHCR/2014. Read more stories on stories.unhcr.org.
Share your refugee story on Twitter to @diplocourier, #WorldRefugeeDay.
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Montenegro: Lakic's Story
June 20, 2014
I did not even notice the bombs falling around me. I could do nothing about the bombs, but I could save my family, my children.
We are from Benkovac, Croatia. My husband, three of my children (8, 5, and 3), and I ran away in 1994, due to increased military activity in that region. Before leaving, I worked as a teacher, while my husband worked in a factory. Until the war we had a very good life, but then everything went downhill. I had to work during the war, while my husband was mobilized, unwillingly. During the entire war period, we lived in our village house without electricity and water. Our apartment in Zadar, a coastal city some 300 km away from Zagreb, was erased by bombshells.
Just at the outset of the war, I gave birth to my third child, a son. During the war I did not have the right to maternity leave and had to both work and take care of the baby. In 1993, all my hopes that the war would end were shattered. By the end of 1993, the war intensified: food and water were scarce and we barely survived on scraps. Our house was barely saved, as bombs fell virtually at our doorstep. All the while, I had to take care of my children and work. It was horrible.
In 1994, the enemy forces invaded and closed in on where we lived. My husband, obtaining the information from the field, deserted the army, came to us, and said we needed to leave immediately. We took our car and joined a seemingly endless convoy of other refugees. Our trip lasted eight days. We did not know where we were going, as we merely followed the convoy. We did not care, as long as we were going away from war. With two children and a baby, we left without anything, food or water. I still shiver when I think of that.
Empathy was a luxury nobody was entitled to on the journey. It was a struggle for bare existence. We traveled for two days, when we crossed into Bosnia and reached a small city, Petrovac. There, I realized something was wrong with my youngest, Milos, an infant of 3 years. He looked very weak, almost lifeless. We inquired about the hospital and I headed in its general direction, while my husband stayed with our children in the car. I walked some 3 km, all the while a spectacle of explosions pervaded everything around me. Holding Milos while looking for the hospital felt very surreal, as if time had stopped. I felt as if life itself was leaving him.
We finally found a doctor, who understood my son was dehydrated and gave him the proper therapy. In the meantime, I was instructed to look around the city for some tea, as we were all at risk of dehydration. I remember clearly: I knocked at 23 doors asking for help. I did not even notice the bombs falling around me. I could do nothing about the bombs, but I could save my family, my children. At the 23rd doorstep, Fatima, a Muslim woman, opened. Until then, I had no contact and understanding of Muslims. She let me inside the house, packed tea and even food and thus my family was saved. It seems that war, despite all its madness, taught me an invaluable lesson about humanity, a lesson I will never forget. We moved on and six days later we were in Vojvodina, Serbia. Now we live in Bar, coastal city of Montenegro. I work as a teacher, my children are graduating from the University. We are doing well, all thanks to Fatima from Bosnian Petrovac.
Lakic's testimony has been taken by Mensur Bajramspahic/UNHCR/2014. Read more stories on stories.unhcr.org.
Share your refugee story on Twitter to @diplocourier, #WorldRefugeeDay.
